


i wouldn't want to know

by a_good_soldier



Category: Jesus Christ Superstar - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-18 20:37:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14859872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_good_soldier/pseuds/a_good_soldier
Summary: Judas visits Jesus the night before his death.





	i wouldn't want to know

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place the night before Judas's death (probably after Herod's song though). Note to self: don't watch the (fantastic!!!) NBC live production of JCS for the fourth time at 11pm when you have work the next day.
> 
> This was written with the incredible JCS live cast in mind (John Legend is such a cutie! Brandon Victor Dixon owns my heart!) but hopefully is ambiguous enough that you can imagine whoever you want. Binge-written in half an hour, but I promise I have read it over for technical errors.

He already knows what he’ll say to the Pharisees when he sees them again. _He was so bad I had to turn my head_. He won’t say what he did before then, when Jesus’s wounds were new enough to Judas that he didn’t instinctively flinch from them. From the evidence of his own sin.

Jesus is in a cell, and he is going to die tomorrow. Judas won’t be alive to see it, if God has any mercy. The guards can sense that they’re both damned men, perhaps, or they are just unusually kind to this King of the Jews, since they turn their backs on them both. Maybe they think Judas is there to gloat, to add insult to injury. Maybe they think Judas is there to add _injury_ to injury. If he weren’t himself, Judas would think so. He wouldn’t put anything past himself. Look at the damage he’s wrought with the best of intentions; he could destroy the world if he only thought to do it.

“My God,” Judas breathes as he steps closer and sees the bruises on Jesus’s stomach, the backs of his thighs. His wrists, where hands and rope have worn deep lines. Judas resents the ambiguity of his own words. He’s not sure he can even justify his lack of faith now, now that Jesus has survived this, and still, holy of holies, greets Judas with a smile.

“Judas,” Jesus says hoarsely. Oh, God. Judas rushes to kneel before him, to hold Jesus’s head in his hands, rest it in his lap.

“Jesus,” Judas whispers, “I’m—” Can he say it? Is he worthy of expressing his regret, his sorrow? His own voice cracks, as if to deny him the chance.

Jesus reaches up with clear effort to stroke Judas’s cheek. “Judas,” he says again, still smiling that damned, blessed smile. “Judas. All is forgiven.”

It’s blasphemy, to forgive something like this. “My Lord,” Judas can’t help saying explosively, leaning down so their foreheads touch as Jesus’s hand falls back down. It seems his face is the only part they’ve spared, and Judas doesn’t want to know what future horrors await it. “Jesus. Jesus, what have they done to you?”

And Jesus still seems so serene; so untouched. Even so, through his cracked lips and the soft dimples that are too gentle for a scene like this one, he admits, “It hurts, my friend.”

God have mercy. “Jesus Christ,” Judas gasps out, hand twitching convulsively around Jesus’s face. “How can I help you?”

Jesus grins as though he’s said something funny. Then he settles, and closes his eyes. “This,” he sighs. “This, anything, it feels— it feels good.”

Judas realizes suddenly the power of Mary’s ointments and perfumes, the intoxicating purity of an innocent touch. To hold Jesus, to make him feel good— it’s everything. He was a fool not to understand. “What else?” he asks quietly, so as not to disturb Jesus’s relaxation. He keeps stroking Jesus’s forehead, his hair. “What else can I give you?”

Jesus releases a long breath. “Lower, please,” he says, and Judas obeys, his right hand moving gently, carefully down to his neck, while his left remains cradling Jesus’s skull. Jesus flinches, and so Judas aims even lower than that, strokes his collarbone as Jesus sinks into it.

“Is this right?” _Have I done it? Have I made you happy for once in your sad, sad life, my friend?_ he wants to ask, but he knows he can’t.

The man nods. “It’s perfect,” he says, and so Judas continues, runs his hand even lower to touch Jesus’s chest.

And then Jesus lets out a sound close to a whimper. Judas is suddenly terrified that he’s made it all worse— ”Is it— Have I—”

“You’ve done nothing wrong,” Jesus assures him. “What they do—” and even Jesus’s beatific smile cannot withstand the memories of brutality, it seems, because he flinches with a frown, there on the floor, half in Judas’s lap. “It is a relief to finally be touched without pain.”

It guts Judas that he’s done this. That he begrudged Jesus his worship at Mary’s hands not so long ago. That he led Jesus into the mouth of the monster, and pushed him in besides.

He stops his movements in this dark contemplation, and Jesus opens his eyes. And now — although he has been beaten, although he has lain here for hours on cold stone, although he ought to have turned Judas away at the start —  _now_ is when Judas first sees hurt in his eyes. It lays him out flat like a blow. “Jesus— Jesus, I—”

“You kissed me,” he rasps out. Judas closes his eyes. What a thing to have done. “And it—” Judas opens his eyes to see Jesus smiling, the pain never once leaving his eyes. The dimples too soft for this space. “It felt good. Oh, Judas, it was something good.”

It all hits Judas at once, the magnitude of what he’s done. The violation he has committed, and now, now that he’s faced up to it, he realizes what he should’ve known from the start; that Jesus was worthy of nothing less than pure devotion. A purity Judas was hard pressed to give him. “Jesus,” he grates out, because _my friend_ feels like something he’s lost the right to say. He tries it again, tries to say _I’m sorry_ , but the words won’t come out. The block in his throat has its pair in his tears.

“Will you kiss me again?” Jesus’s eyes are unflinchingly clear, even through Judas’s tear-blurred vision. “Will you let me remember you without betrayal?”

Judas presses his hand flat on Jesus’s chest as though that will steady him, but a sob escapes him anyway. “God,” he says, pleads, half to the sky and half to the man below him. Then he forces himself to meet Jesus’s eyes. “Yes. Yes, if this is what you want.”

Jesus trembles in his hands. “I know I’m being selfish,” he says. “But I hope— I hope you will indulge me.”

And that — knowing that Jesus is dying tomorrow, knowing that Jesus knows he is dying tomorrow — pushes Judas to lean over him. He starts with a kiss on the cheek, the way he did in Gethsemane. Jesus’s skin under his lips is cold and clammy. Judas moves the hand on Jesus’s chest to entangle his fingers with Jesus’s, hoping to rub warmth into them.

He swallows another sob, and says, temple still pressed to Jesus’s temple, mouth still pressed to Jesus’s cheek, “Is this what you wanted?”

Jesus’s hand spasms in Judas’s, and Judas leans back to see his face. “Yes, it’s what I wanted. But it’s not everything I wanted.”

Judas almost drops Jesus’s hand. Jesus is brave. He’s always been brave, but this— this is brave, or it’s stupid. It’s profane, to think that Judas would be worthy of more.

So Judas deliberately misinterprets. He leans down, and kisses Jesus’s forehead, lips lingering, tasting his chilled sweat. Their interlocked hands rest above Jesus’s heart, and Judas reassures himself with its beat. He is still alive. They are still alive.

Jesus breathes out a sigh as Judas leans back again, still squeezing Jesus’s hand, still stroking the back of Jesus’s skull, thumb on his cheek. “That’s what I wanted too,” Jesus says, and then smiles gently. “But it’s not everything I wanted.”

Judas thinks to do something else — to kiss the back of his hand, maybe, or his other cheek — but Jesus continues. “They’ll kill me tomorrow, my friend. Please. Let me be selfish tonight.”

He said it. He _said_ it. The truth they have been dancing around for what feels like ninety years. “Jesus, don’t—” But what is he protesting? The truth? After he’s destroyed all their lives in the hopes of preserving it?

“Will you kiss me?” Jesus asks again, hand trembling. His breath is coming harder, Judas realizes. He may not make it to the cross tomorrow. What a damned mess, he thinks. A damned, foolish mess he’s made of it all.

So, yes. Yes, in this cell, in the midst of the violence he’s started, Judas will kiss him.

Judas bends forward; he releases Jesus’s hand to hold his face between both of his hands. He stops, just for a second, to feel Jesus’s breath against his mouth. Still alive, still alive. Their lips brush against each other softly, tenderly, until Judas really commits to it, mouth moving desperately against Jesus’s. Yes. _Yes._ Jesus kisses him back, as best as he can, on his back and perpendicular to Judas’s own body. Everywhere they touch is electric, a brutal reminder of everything they could’ve had for years.

Jesus pulls back for breath, and Judas blinks his eyes open, stunned. “Jesus—”

“It hurts so much,” Jesus admits, and for one awful second, Judas thinks he meant the kiss. “Please, help me forget—”

And Judas leans back in, meets Jesus’s mouth with his own. He opens his mouth just a little, just enough to taste Jesus’s lips, to run his tongue over Jesus’s bottom lip and bite so, so gently on it. He strokes Jesus’s cheek and smooths his other hand over the back of Jesus’s skull, and Jesus groans low in the back of his throat and God in Heaven it’s enough. It’s enough for a lifetime, and it’s more than this sinner deserves.

“Jesus,” he breathes, “Jesus, Jesus, I’m _sorry_ ,” and it comes out broken, the last wish of a dying man. He kisses his new Lord all through it, and Jesus allows it, he takes it, he smiles into their kisses and gives Judas benediction.

Finally, Jesus reaches his hand up to catch Judas’s wrist. “My friend,” Jesus says. His breath hitches, and Judas smooths a hand over his chest in hopes of settling the air in him, bringing heat back into his body. He meets Jesus’s eyes, and Jesus says quietly, “It’s time for you to leave, it seems.”

“What?”

Jesus nods at the guards behind Judas, who have entered the cell. Judas turns to see them awkwardly looking away, almost respectful in spite of the fact that if this were anyone else, this would be a spectacle to be gawked at.

He turns back to Jesus. He’s not ready. He never would have been ready to leave, and that’s why he didn’t want to start this; he didn’t want to know what he’d lost. Didn’t want to see the evidence of his own crime. A coward until the end. “Jesus—”

“Judas.” Jesus’s hand slides down to play with Judas’s fingers, and then it slides away completely. “Thank you.” 

And that — the idea of thanks being needed, of Jesus being grateful — is the biggest obscenity of them all. Judas opens his mouth awkwardly, unable to think of a response, and the guards step closer to pick him up by the arms. “Wait— wait—”

They don’t listen, though, and Judas struggles suddenly, unable to fathom what he’s lost here tonight. “My God—” he says, and it’s all for Jesus. “My God—”

Jesus smiles that damnable smile again, and the guards close the cell doors.


End file.
